Fragments of Heleus: Nakmor Drack
by lyricsaboutcats
Summary: Two companion pieces featuring Drack and Sara, one on the Tempest and one in the field.
1. Chapter 1

The korkro roots are topped with green shoots when he stuffs them into a pot next to a chunk of eiroch. Drack glowers at them, and then covers everything with broth.

His _ru'shan_ is still at the Nexus. It's a thought that keeps him up at night more than nerve damage ever could, and he is tired.

And Kesh is so small, he thinks to himself before he remembers that she is grown with hundreds of years of experience. The thought does not comfort him as much as it should. Blood is far too easy to lose, like hearts and livers and hands. Whenever his omni-tool rings with a message from her a shot of adrenaline tears through him, through muscles and woven steel that pinches like barbed wire curling around his spine. It is one of the few times he checks the damn thing.

He is too old for this, he thinks whenever he does.

He piles a few more ingredients into the pot and sets the roast in the oven. It will take eleven hours to cook, if only because someone will inevitably open it to grab a bite. He can already see the heat rushing away in an updraft of impatience.

He smiles a little bit as he thinks of it.

On the ship called the Tempest, without a rifle in his hands, Nakmor Drack is _The Cook_. If anyone has a problem with the menu, their survival instincts prevent them from complaining. A wide array of dishes greet each crew member who opens the fridge in the galley kitchen. And Drack finds that there is a certain level of satisfaction in watching their eyes widen whenever they take a bite of something new; a certain amount of pride at their thwarted preconceptions.

He's very good at his job.

Aside from being the cook, Drack is also _Badass Ship Grandpa_ , according to Pellesaria B'Sayle, and _Doing Far Too Much For His Condition_ according to the lovely Doctor Lexi T'Perro. Their pilot is afraid of him, a secret he hides not well at all, skirting around at the edges of the dinner hour and sneaking bits of leftover meals from the fridge with long trembling fingers. Several extra helpings are left on small plates for him, each one easy to snatch away in the dark of midnight.

And in the early hours of the morning, when sleep still threatens the edges of Drack's eyes and the pain clings at its most portent, a small human figure weaves around him like a klixen while he finishes making breakfast. Sara drinks strong black tea with too much sugar, her eyes full of mirth, and laughs out words like _oh won't you dear_ and _please Very Handsome Sir_ while he waves her away with a massive hand that holds no ire.

"I don't bake, kid," he rumbles with a gravelly voice, flipping a pile of eggs now that the roast is in the oven. "I cook."

Sara presses her hands together. "Come on, Drack. Cinnamon rolls are the best kind of cooking."

"No," he says with a glance at her. "They're the squishy kind."

Pausing at the counter next to him to pour more tea, she stops flitting and absently lifts a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders. "Is there really a squishy kind of cooking?" she asks, watching the tea slip out of the pot.

He snorts and thrusts his crest toward her, eyes narrowed and very close to hers. "Yeah," he rumbles. "It's called baking."

Sara starts in surprise, pulling back with a delighted laugh, and he smirks at her. She turns away to grab a cup of coffee for him.

A strong breakfast is fed to everyone: eggs and leafy damn vegetables.

And, every once in a while, squishy little cinnamon rolls.


	2. Chapter 2

On Elaaden, Drack kneels in dry sand and rips a piece of armor off a scavenger, tossing it away and pulling at broken belts and clasps. The dead turian's plates have crumbled beneath the weight of Drack's blood rage, already brittle as a side effect of cryo-stasis degeneration. It still takes far too long to find the stolen datadisc that he is looking for. He tucks it into his armor when he finds it.

And when Drack is done with the turian he stays in position for a moment, leaning over deep cerulean hues. He breathes deeply, ignoring the acrid scent of dextro blood and the pain that whispers along his spine. His fists clench and he rushes on to the next one.

A salarian, hiding behind a shuttle. Wide eyes, colorful face.

Drack's fist slams into it and she falls, with a bullet ripping through her culturally valuable forehead as a final insult when she hits the ground. The splash of green is a memory of the blanket his granddaughter used to wrap herself with, seeping into the sand.

Another breath, with more pain this time.

He should probably stop charging into these assholes. One more, he tells himself silently, and then he will stop to assess the damage. There is more blood, rushing with the heat of Elaaden's sun, and he can taste it in the back of his throat when he roars.

Another turian. Rough plates, ripping against skin.

An asari.

Another salarian. A splash of green.

Everything is punctuated by the shot in the head, almost rhythmically. And Ryder jogs to join Drack when it is over, grinning wildly through the glass of her helmet. She takes it off, tucking it under her arm, and her sniper rifle hangs loosely at her back. The sun of Elaaden reflects violently across her armor.

"No sympathy, old man," she calls out in a swirl of dust.

He glares down at her and hands her five datadiscs. "Was I asking for it, kid?"

She hesitates, unsure at first, and then winks up at him. "The exiles were," she replies. "And they're not getting it," she adds sweetly.

The corpses receive a very solid kick beneath her boot, and then she moves on. Drack drapes her in his shadow to protect her from the heat.

Sara Ryder is the Pathfinder of the Ark Hyperion, and she is insane. Any human who can do as much damage as she does must be a little off. But he does more damage with her than alone and they both like to shoot things. It is an uncomplicated friendship.

They drive through the wastes of Elaaden, cleansing it of everything they can find. She is a storm of imprecise violence and flat one-liners, and he says very little. But there is a combining krogan roar and human yell whenever they pass a kett camp, because there is always another waiting in the sandy wastes of the western hemisphere. And Ryder always stops.

She grins at Drack when they get out of the terrain vehicle, deeply appreciative of his enthusiasm for simple brutalities, and a funny feeling creeps through the pain guarding his nerves. Drack snorts and pushes the feeling away before it is even a thought. He has scabs on his ass older than her.

And Drack has been around long enough to know the expression on her face while she fights; that the promise of battle running through her mind is the only thing that can still her thoughts.

Ryder rushes at the kett. She rips into an alien soldier, blood gushing past her blade.

The asari trailing behind them offers biotic support from behind cover. She muses about violence on the comm. She does so playfully, but alarm occasionally threatens the edges of her words.

Sara rises up into the air and then dives back toward another kett; omni-blade crackling electricity against her armor, tears staining the edges of her eyes. She is deathly calm.

Danger has lost its meaning for her. Drack knows this because he is the same. He takes a deep breath, and his own lack of redundant systems shoots white spots across his vision. He joins her with a roar.

And there is pain everywhere, staining everything he touches. But his thoughts grow quiet as they fight.


End file.
